They came after hours of brooding over his desire to
distinguish himself, and his fatal want of ability; they came during
his intervals of purely intellectual disgust with himself and with
life; but more frequently still they came upon him from no apparent
cause whatever. They were a part of his personality, just as humor,
or light, unthinking gaiety, or a constantly bubbling wit may form the
predominating characteristic of another man.
For a week after the night of his futile impulse to put into shape
the nebulous verse which had tormented his brain, no one saw Harold
Dartmouth. The violent shock and strain had induced an attack of
mental and spiritual depression which amounted to prostration, and
he lay on his sofa taking no notice of the days as they slipped by,
eating little and speaking to no one. At first Jones, his man-servant,
was not particularly disturbed. He had brought Dartmouth up, and
had come to look upon his moods as a matter of course. He therefore
confined himself to forcing his master to take his food and to
parrying the curiosity of the French servants; he knew Dartmouth's
temper too well to venture to call a doctor, and he hoped that in a
few days the mood would wear itself out.
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